The House on the River by Fred M. White

The purple outline of the big house on Barnes Common was faintly blurred against the velvety umber of the night, like a touch of ragged brushwork on a canvas. It was still comparatively early, barely eleven o'clock, for it was no far cry from the Leinster Rooms to Barnes Common once Quint had left the dinner with a promise to call and see Ralph Enderby at the club shortly after mid-night. If Quint were successful, then he had small intention of troubling Enderby that night or at any time in the future.

At the same time, there was no margin to spare, because, within an hour the moon would be up, and Quint was taking no risks so far as that was concerned. He stood outside the library window presently, under the shadow of the house, with his hands on the clasp. He knew that the application of a stout knife-blade would be quite sufficient for his purpose. A quarter of an hour later, and the thing would be done. He felt in his pocket for the case of tools that he had picked up on his way past the old boat-house, and the touch of the cold steel seemed to give him fresh courage. Not that he needed the stimulant, he told himself half-boastfully, for he was never more cool and collected in his life. Still, he could hear the regular piston beating of his heart, as he worked in the indigo dusk of the night, he could catch the faint warm smell of leather in the library as he pushed back the catch.